


hook, line, and sinker

by liliapocalypse



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Artist Miya Atsumu, Inspired by Fanart, M/M, Model Sakusa Kiyoomi, Nude Modeling, Sakusa Kiyoomi-centric, The Art of Seduction by Sakusa Kiyoomi, no sexual content just very heavy sexual tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:40:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29314989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liliapocalypse/pseuds/liliapocalypse
Summary: Every painting flames his ever-growing pride over his work, his body,himself.But he has never seen Number 13’s. He is always the first to leave, blond hair bouncing out towards the door the minute class ends, his canvas in tow.No one has ever withheld their attention from Kiyoomi like that before, and it intrigues him.And Sakusa Kiyoomi is never one to back down from a challenge.While nude modeling for a college art class, a certain Miya Atsumu refuses to give him the time of day, and Sakusa Kiyoomi takes on the challenge to keep the blond looking.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 30
Kudos: 332
Collections: sakuatsu/, ♧SakuAtsu Fics♧





	hook, line, and sinker

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based on this [glorious fanart](https://twitter.com/mcgooen/status/1358576427164123140?s=20) by [mcgooen](https://twitter.com/mcgooen) on Twitter. Seriously, go check out the fanart and follow Meg if you haven't yet!
> 
> This is Rated M mostly for the nudity (no sexual content!). Hope you enjoy this glorified word vomit!

Kiyoomi is used to being stared at. After all, that’s what he is getting paid to do.

Every movement, every pose, is done with intent, tailor-made for the sole purpose of making people look at him—may it be at a magazine cover, a billboard, a runway, or on a humid summer day in a college art class. 

He basks on the attention, devouring every last bit of it.

And boy, does he get it. With a chin propped high, Kiyoomi gets the attention from photographers gushing over his perfect form and fans raving over his strides on the catwalk. Even in that tiny studio, Kiyoomi gets his fill from the twenty-something pairs of eyes currently trained on him. Artists of varying ages take in his bare body and observe the tug and pull of every muscle with utmost attention for art. 

“I don’t understand why you bother with those art classes, Kiyoomi,” Komori once said. “You’re already booked with photoshoots and catwalks for _months_ , you’re basically set for life.” 

And Komori is right in every way. But here’s the thing: Kiyoomi seeks the intimacy of it—no, he _thrives_ off of it. There is something about holding a pose as everyone stares, as though there are stories carved in Kiyoomi’s skin and everyone is reading along with him, bathing in this shared vulnerability and trust all in the name of art.

Besides, it doesn’t hurt that every canvas strokes his ego ever so effortlessly. It’s flattering to see exactly how people perceive him once stripped of the blinding catwalk lights or the camera shutters. Only the raw image, drawn and painted by bare hands, with no painting alike in its interpretation. Some paint him as soft as velvet, all curves and blended pastels. Some draw him like the edge of a knife, all sharp angles and harsh strokes. Still, every painting flames his ever-growing pride over his work, his body, _himself_.

But he has never seen Number 13’s. He is always the first to leave, blond hair bouncing out towards the door the minute class ends, his canvas in tow.

No one has ever withheld their attention from Kiyoomi like that before, and it intrigues him.

And Sakusa Kiyoomi is never one to back down from a challenge.

* * *

The day of the next session comes, and Kiyoomi walks in with only a sinfully red velvet robe and nothing underneath, the soft thud of his bare soles resonating in the otherwise silent studio. The stool is situated by the humongous windows, smack dab in the middle of the easels lining the walls. 

He sits on the stool, his back turned to the class, and ever so slowly unties the robe. Kiyooomi could feel more than hear the hush that falls over the room as he slips the robe off one shoulder at a time, letting the fabric fall slowly until it covers the stool entirely.

He turns his head to the side and turns his gaze to Easel 13, the man behind the canvas impassive yet frozen with lips slightly parted and a pencil perched on his bottom lip. 

_Gotcha_.

“Sakusa-san, you know the drill. Whenever you’re ready.”

Kiyoomi nods and the professor proceeds to direct him for the day’s pose. Kiyoomi then sets his plan into motion. He makes sure to shift his body towards the blond, just a tad. He tilts his body to the left, accentuating the curve of his waist, and his face to the side, flexing his neck and showing off the sharp cut of his jawline. He gracefully rounds his shoulders until his clavicles jut off tastefully across his shoulders.

He then crosses one leg on top of the stool and dangles the other leg off the seat, shifting and flexing his gluteal and thigh muscles with every movement. For his last act, he sets both hands on his legs, each finger purposefully posed, with his biceps positioned to frame his pectorals. His hands naturally guide the eyes down to his sculpted abs and the deep V of his pelvis, with only a trail of dark hair peeking through.

“Okay, class, you may begin.”

Oh, and it does begin.

Sunlight streams from the windows, bathing him in light and warmth. Kiyoomi watches from the corner of his eyes as the blond picks up a pencil and starts sketching, his biceps flexing with every stroke. Kiyoomi meets his gaze but the blond does the same thing he always does: he looks away, as though staring at Kiyoomi burns him, and Kiyoomi _loathes_ it.

Kiyoomi is not dense. In the many nude poses he’s done for professional painters and college art classes, he knows what it means when women press their thighs together as the velvet robe drops on the floor, or when men squirm in their seats, pulling sweatshirts and jackets over the tenting on their pants. He knows of the way their gazes linger on his body, dragging over his hips where his legs are artfully crossed for cover, and Kiyoomi sees none of that in those amber eyes.

A blend of frustration and curiosity settles in his gut. Suddenly, the model is observing the artist, eyes trained on the blond’s fingers as he drops the pencil and picks up the palette knife. Kiyoomi watches a crease form in between the man’s eyebrows as he dips the knife in different paints, mixing and adding more to his palette until he is satisfied. 

Well, Kiyoomi _isn’t_.

Kiyoomi tilts his head down and stares at Number 13 head-on, looking up from his lashes. When his gaze flickers on Kiyoomi’s face, Kiyoomi darts out his tongue to wet his lips and parts them, urging the man—no, _challenging_ him—to remember _that_ detail while biting his lower lip to bring forth a flush that Kiyoomi knows will make them irresistible. 

And there it is. He looks at Kiyoomi, face still vacant and unreadable if not for the way the hand holding the palette knife stills midair. Kiyoomi thinks absently, _I win this time_ , as the blond gives him a once-over, his gaze sticky and charged. 

Seemingly coming back to his senses, Number 13 moves his hand once again, but not without Kiyoomi catching the slight tremble of his fingers as he begins mixing a color that is distinctively as red as Kiyoomi’s lips.

The thrill thrums underneath Kiyoomi’s bloodstream as his every move nicks and nips at the blond’s pristine facade. He watches his defenses crumble as the blond hesitates, the brush hovering aimlessly above the canvas, or when Kiyoomi hears him utter a deep, hoarse “Fuck!” as the palette knife falls with a clang against the hardwood floors. 

“Sorry,” he says, addressing the room before bowing slightly and running a cloth across the fallen knife. A smile tugs his lips upward.

The man is falling apart and yet Kiyoomi feels _victorious_ ; validated, even.

Kiyoomi knows how stupid and absurd it all is. He literally has billboards and magazines in his name, as well as several critics and awards that scream of his work with reverence. His loaded bank account is more than enough validation, too, and if that isn’t enough, there are plenty of men and women with deep pockets who are ready to throw themselves at him. 

And yet somehow, in this dingy classroom, with his ass bare against the rickety cloth-covered stool, he wants more. 

He wants more from the blond on Easel 13.

It is then that amber eyes rise to Kiyoomi’s profile. Kiyoomi clenches his jaw and lets a lock of hair fall over his forehead, and for once, the blond holds his gaze. Its fervor makes his breaths shallow, and suddenly Kiyoomi feels _pinned_ at the intensity of his stare. 

And Kiyoomi knows. He has chased those eyes long enough to know that his gaze has long crossed the boundaries of a painter’s clinical eye as he studies his painting, the ring of brown barely perceptible past his blown-out pupils. 

This is... something else.

The paradigm shift resounds deep in Kiyoomi bones as they stare down at each other. The blond does not waver in the slightest, his eyes leaving behind pinpricks of heat that blooms from his neck and down to his chest. Kiyoomi silently hopes no one notices the new tint of red coloring his skin. 

Desperation claws from his guts. Fuck subtlety; Kiyoomi’s not waiting any longer.

“That’s it for today, class. Remember to clean your stations—” The rest of the sentence sizzles to white noise as Kiyoomi quickly grabs his robe and drapes it over his body, haphazardly tying the ribbon as he brisk walks towards Easel 13. 

The blond glances up and smiles timidly, the twin dimples on his cheeks deceptively paired with a look of faux shock in his face. “Oh, hi, Sakusa-san.” 

It’s a face that says _I win. I win because you gave in, Sakusa-san_.

The loss of the challenge he had started weighs heavy in his head, but the demented part of his psyche that made him approach the man thinks: _You’re looking and talking to me, so it’s a win either way_.

He peers at the easel and almost halts at the image of his naked body on the canvas. His strokes are loose and gentle, like the soft, lingering caress of a lover. His lighting work is as sublime as the strips of sunlight cascading across Kiyoomi’s skin. Kiyoomi can’t help but think how he looks ethereal, almost glowing, in the canvas and absently wonders if this is how the blond sees him. No, Kiyoomi _hopes_ this is how he sees him.

There are several unfinished parts, as though the man was distracted and moved on to another part of the canvas. There are minimal colors in his face except for his lips, standing out with its reds and pinks, and his thigh is clumsily rendered. His abs are drawn with vague strokes, a stark contrast to the specificity of the lines on his pecs and his nipples that Kiyoomi belatedly realizes were stiff the whole time, poking through the fabric.

The parts that are fully rendered, though, are excruciatingly detailed down to the shadows, the individual strands of his hair, the column of his throat, the moles scattered all-over his body, every single one accounted for. The painting holds an amount of detail that can only be achieved through ardent observation and scrutiny. 

“Reached a roadblock with your painting…” He trails off, willing the blond to respond with his name. And he does, the glint in his eye catching Kiyoomi’s attention. “Atsumu. Miya Atsumu.”

The others in the class have begun filtering out of the room, with only two or three students lingering around. Yet somehow the air is only getting thicker, wrapping around Kiyoomi’s throat as he takes in the swoop of his lashes up close.

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi echoes, lavishing in the roll of his lips as he mouths the name. _Atsumu_. _Atsumu_. _Atsumu._

He’s so lost in Miya’s name he does not even notice Atsumu calling him. “How ‘bout ya?”

Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow upon hearing Atsumu’s accent, thick and heavy against the rich timber of his voice, just as amusement takes a hold of him. Kiyoomi knows that _he_ knows, if Atsumu’s mischievous grin is any indication. He answers anyway. “Sakusa Kiyoomi.”

Atsumu raises his head and looks at him through half-lidded eyes, amber eyes as warm as the sun-filled room. “Kiyoomi,” Atsumu repeats in a whisper.

It should have pissed him off. He has lost count of the many times he glowered at people who dared use his first name, especially in a professional setting. And yet the sound of his name in kansai-ben sends a rush that travels down to every nerve ending in Kiyoomi’s body.

It _thrills_ him, sets off his adrenaline like no catwalk ever could.

“D’ya have time to spare, Kiyoomi? As ya can see, I wasn’t able to finish. I encountered some problems, and to be honest, I was a bit…” Atsumu tilts his head and smirks, a hand snaking around Kiyoomi’s leg and resting on the back of his knee. “Distracted.”

The hand in his leg tightens, and Kiyoomi’s breath hitches, a gasp escaping unbidden from his lips. “Pose for me some more, Kiyoomi.”

He has plans. He knows that because he scanned through his calendar that morning. His manager has also sent him various messages and e-mails as a heads-up. He _knows_ that.

But the decision has been made as Kiyoomi curls his fingers under Atsumu’s chin and leans in, Atsumu’s breath fanning his cheeks. “With pleasure, Atsumu.”

The gravity of the moment sinks deep with the sudden awareness of a singular, irrefutable fact.

Kiyoomi is _so_ in it—hook, line, and sinker.

**Author's Note:**

> If I ever get around to writing it, there _might_ be an explicit extra chapter to this... we'll see 👀
> 
> * * *
> 
> Find me brainrotting about SakuAtsu 24/7 here: [Twitter](https://www.twitter.com/liliapocalypse) | [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/liliapocalypse) | [Tumblr](https://liliapocalypse.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Also come scream at or with me on my [fic graphic](https://twitter.com/liliapocalypse/status/1359483903514267648?s=20) if that’s your thing!


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